Better Without Me
by Cezille07
Summary: Patience, one of Cartman's weaker skills. His patience is put to the test when his childish prophecy about Kyle - "You need me!" - refuses to come true after millions of chances. A breakdown thirty years in the making may just open his eyes that maybe, just maybe, HE was the one who needed Kyle all along. Kyman. Oneshot.


**Summary** : Patience, one of Cartman's weaker skills. His patience is put to the test when his childish prophecy about Kyle — "You need me!" — refuses to come true after millions of chances. A breakdown thirty years in the making may just open his eyes that maybe, just maybe, HE was the one who needed Kyle all along.

 **Warnings** : Foul language. Potential OOC.

 **Disclaimer** : South Park is owned by Comedy Central, and was created by Matt Stone and Trey Parker.

 **A/N** : This one has been sitting in my drafts for over two years. It has been edited and re-edited to death, but hopefully it makes sense... Critiques are appreciated!

* * *

 **~o0O0o~  
** Fifth Grade

"Oh yeah? I bet you assholes would just fucking DIE without me! You need me! All of you, jerks, I promise you, you need me!"

Halfhearted threats, check. Kyle's temper accelerating toward a breaking point, check. Stan shaking his head in a way that said, "Jesus Christ, not again, this is humiliating," check. Kenny not even paying attention, check.

Routine, all of that was routine, and Eric was quite happy to rely on a process that was tried and tested by the years.

What he did not rely on was Kyle's sudden outburst of indecipherable screams, accompanied by a surge of energy that enabled him to overcome Eric's rather ineffective evasion and pummel him with blows. Eric, confused as fuck, felt already eligible for a life insurance claim before he thought to hit Kyle back.

"What the FUCK Jew?!" he cried in desperation.

"What do you MEAN 'what the fuck'?!" Kyle's ears became redder as he continued raining blows with the ferocity of the rabid Manbearpig, "You self-centered bastard! Get a hold of yourself! Do you think you're being funny? Do you think people like any part of you, in any way? All you have is your fucking pride, your disgusting mouth, your unlovable body! Why the fuck do we put up with someone as stupid as you?! Fuck you, fuck you! I hate you—"

At first, the students were cheering him on for retaliating against Cartman at long last. But soon teeth flew out of the brunet's mouth, and his face became unrecognizable. It took three teachers to wrestle Kyle away from the bloodied heap of Eric's body. Kyle's eyes were unrecognizable slits as they leered at him while he was led away.

The whole time Eric was in the hospital, he wondered just why Kyle snapped, and why at only that moment. The Jew was gentler than a blade of grass, more boring than a stupid book, and more compassionate than all the mothers in the world combined. Eric ached from the punches, but Kyle's words rang in his ears like music. He wondered for a long time how deluded Kyle must've been to spew such nonsense for ten minutes straight while bullying a weak, defenseless, and, most of all, very important person.

 **~o0O0o~  
** Present Day

"Fatass?" The voice called with a chuckle.

Eric turned from his seat to behold Ike standing at the door. "Oh, it's you, dildo."

Ike stepped toward him with a formal, offended air. "Please, Cartman. Here, you will address me as Dr. Ike or Dr. Broflovski, or I will certainly remove your visitation rights and ask security to escort you outside."

The little shit had turned up to be a fine doctor. When he wasn't talking, he looked like a respectable man who had saved lives and was quietly proud of it. When he opened his mouth, though, his Canadian heritage showed through his success, and Cartman had no alias for him other than his childhood nickname.

"You can't do that, Canadian Jew," Eric whined, and he looked back at the object of his consideration. He heard Ike cluck his tongue impatiently behind him.

Kyle on a hospital bed was a sight he was only too used to seeing, too fond of seeing. That meant all his fire was doused, and he was weak and helpless like the child Eric always thought him to be.

In truth they had grown up. Far too fast for Eric's liking, no matter how much people told him there was no controlling that. It happened too fast...but it didn't happen fast enough.

 **~o0O0o~  
** High School

 _Any day now_ , Eric promised himself repeatedly. His threat-turned-prophecy would reveal its truth sometime soon. Kyle had left no inch of Eric's skin clean after that fight; Eric came home three weeks later still healing from injuries to his body and to his dignity. He happily used this excuse to ask his mom to be home-schooled for good. Liane immediately had him pulled out of school, hired some guy called Monty to be his tutor (who also engaged in "studies" of female anatomy), and their lives became very, very quiet and relaxed. Eric spent the rest of his elementary days in the solitude of his room with his favorite snacks under the uninterested tutelage of Liane's new boyfriend. It was dull, but he held his ground: this silence would pay off. One day, his "friends" would realize they were never the same unless he was around.

In a way, that was true. The three finished elementary and middle school without a hitch, and entered high school feeling invigorated and uninhibited by the constant taunts of the boy they refused to acknowledge as "big-boned". During freshman year, Eric was only motivated to wake up by the hunger rousing him from sleep, and the dream he always had—Kyle, Stan, and Kenny, bowing to him in tears with the proclamation, "YOU WERE RIGHT, we need you!" written all over their skin and clothes—would dissipate like a fog of breath on the window. His mother left a breakfast tray outside his bedroom door, and that would be it for social interaction. Regardless, he felt like a king, a king with only one maidservant and one ignorant, good-for-nothing educational advisor.

Eric took steps outside his home for the first time that fall, and the icy winds that bit his skin were as unfamiliar as the faces that he saw in the school halls. All of the friends he knew shot up in height, and their childlike faces were replaced by the rage of hormones, pimples, and makeup. He looked down at his flabby midsection and was struck by a pang of disappointment. He had grown, sure, but more horizontal than otherwise. Kyle's words were still true, "...Unlovable body..." and Eric felt repulsed by the memory, and even more repulsed by himself. He threw a mini-tantrum in the schoolyard: thrashing the raked up leaves and upending the garbage bins when all the students returned to their classrooms. To further appease himself, he left his permanent mark by writing "Jews are stupid" on a patch of drying cement on the sidewalk.

He visited once again at their high school graduation, envying the white togas and their fancy diplomas (which he convinced himself meant nothing; it was the college diplomas that got you shit after all). He learned that Kyle beat Wendy for the title valedictorian. Naturally. He also learned the Stan had broken up with the bitch for good, while to his surprise Butters had gotten a girlfriend. _Life's a bitch_ , he thought to himself, snickering to himself as he snuck back out of the auditorium.

The boring, repetitive march music played in his head for a whole week as he set aside a space in his bedroom wall for his own diploma. He asked his tutor to certify his completion of their high school courses, and the man indifferently signed the printed template Eric lifted from Google. This, Eric thought, was the only good thing his uninterested tutor did for him in five years.

 **~o0O0o~  
** College

South Park was small town, and if it grew, it did so at the pace fish took to evolve legs. The community college began construction years after Eric or his peers needed it to exist. The entire Park County's middle-class collegiate population flocked to Middle Park, crammed themselves into the five buildings of the school, and fought for their bachelors in a spectacle that was grimy and utterly draining.

Eric had spent August and a week of September of what was supposed to be his freshman year relishing his easy lifestyle and dreading, at the same time, that he was too far away from Kyle to enforce his dominion over him. He loathed the fact that he needed a piece of paper to prove his worth to anybody, and he was just resolving to go through google to Photoshop himself a college diploma (like before) when Liane entered his bedroom excitedly showing off her shiny new engagement ring.

He was not impressed, to say the least.

At the end of the day, Liane bitterly handed him a debit card and the number of a "friend" who would set up his eligibility for any degree he wanted. She told him in the same sugary sweetness he inherited: "You need to be able to handle yourself now, Poopsykins. No more depending on mommy for everything. Monty and I will give you a monthly allowance, but that's it." Eric understood that to mean he was being kicked out for being a bum and his inability to socialize with her soon-to-be husband. He had been sure this "fling" would be over soon enough, but he was losing hope that his mother would ever focus on him for longer than two seconds every day. And now he was about to be homeless too!

No matter, no matter. There was still an opportunity to sow the seeds of victory, and so Eric reluctantly registered for some management course, and was surprised that he knew so few of the many thousands of students that attended.

Stan was nowhere in the dorms, and news quickly spread of Kenny's apprenticeship with a local modeling agency. Eric figured that that was their means of surviving their loss of his invaluable friendship; they had drifted from their purpose in life and grabbed at the first opportunity to make a livable life out of their emptiness. Two out of three—now only Kyle was left. Of course Kyle was unbreakable. On the other hand, the Jew's reputable smarts should've enabled him entry into some Ivy League university. That would be a problem. But Eric didn't have to worry for long when he spotted Kyle in the far dorm's recreational park, surrounded by several volumes of hardbound books.

"Hello Kaaaahl," Eric greeted cheerfully as he approached.

Kyle glanced up at him with only his eyes, then flipped to the next page as if it had only been a fly that distracted him.

Eric frowned. "I'm glad to see you're doing well! In here with the dump of students who didn't pass any good school's entrance tests!"

Kyle exhaled loudly, but still made no response.

"You know, it'll be good for you to understand your place in society," rambled Eric, "because you'll get your hopes up, and have them crushed. Even now, you're here in some nameless school in some nameless city. How does that feel?"

Kyle continued his blatant indifference.

 _Why isn't he responding?_ He wanted the redhead's attention, damn it, and he was going to get it! But Kyle's fortitude weathered away Eric's resolve; he felt the sun's noontime rays melting his confidence and his scarf was suddenly too tight.

"I'm taking Political Science, Cartman," Kyle said as he got on his feet. He shut the thick volume angrily; the sound caught Eric's attention and glued it to Kyle's terrifying expression. "This is my pre-Law course, so you better watch your mouth before I put you behind bars for slander and assault!"

Eric growled, "Sooner or later, you'll beg for my friendship. Because I'm going to be fucking president of the WORLD! None of your trippy Jew courts will have any say against my AUTHORITA!"

"You're still a fucking, self-absorbed _child_!" Kyle yelled, and he marched off indoors, fuming.

Eric hadn't felt this alive in years.

 **~o0O0o~**

As it happened, Mr. Walter Chen, Liane's friend who helped Eric enter college, was the dean of the Business Administration Institute, and although Eric's decision to randomly choose his courses was a flimsy one, he flourished quite nicely under Mr. Chen's guidance and prodding. Which wasn't to say that Eric "behaved"—no, not in the least. He simply managed to scrape enough time awake in class to not be caught sleeping and passed enough satisfactory projects and exams to not fail. He graduated without honors, but his personality shone best when his peers put him down for his laziness. He was recognized, at the very least, to be a promising business owner in the future, if he just "got his shit together".

This was an insult. Eric didn't NOT have his shit together. He had "finished" high school without knowing what the receiving end of bullying felt like, and hid through the most embarrassing bodily changes of puberty in his bedroom. He was exposed all at once to these pressures. He had forgotten the sound of his own voice sometimes, but he was certain of one thing, and one thing only: that Kyle would come crawling at his doorstep soon enough, admitting defeat. This, if anything, kept him going. He had to show that he was the better, stronger man here. He had to be at his top game, be the world's number one. Whatever his endeavor, in the end he would still be able to show off and say, "Ha, I was right all along!"

And then he got his diploma, a real one, a thick piece of parchment bearing his name and achievements in archaic lettering. It was beautiful. And Eric allowed himself to be proud, even prouder than usual. He then wondered what Kyle was doing, and why on earth he was still absent from Eric's life. And that was the end of his celebration.

 **~o0O0o~  
** Boredom

As he reached the end of his mother's monthly allowance, he sat in his dorm pondering what the fuck he should do now that he was under no one's leash and now had all the time in the world...but no money. Hmmm. This would be a good opportunity to put his skills to use. Starting with that empty lot right next to the elementary school... A community college, the likes of which their piss-poor town had never seen before. Well, he had just the contacts to make it happen, and make it happen he did.

Another four years drifted by slowly before the school opened its gates to the new generation of South Park. Eric stood on the highest floor, savoring the fruits of his labor and wit. Despite accomplishing what he fought for in the last handful of years, there was a familiar ache in his chest as he considered that maybe there was more that life was holding back from him.

Silence awaited him in his two-bedroom house, in his own street just outside town. It was dark and very chilly. He scrolled through Facebook listlessly and waited for anything new to appear in his news feed. Of course, having none of his old friends in his contact list slowed this down to a standstill; his only "friends" were those people from college that he kept in contact with in case of emergencies: special contacts, his mom. Liane never talked to him after high school, and he thought about her a lot these days. She would've been menopausal now; he wondered if she was still married to his dick of a tutor from that time so long ago. Or if she was still alive. She had certainly never made any move to talk to him, except twice a year to greet him on his birthday and on Christmas. Not even on Thanksgiving, no free food, no invitations.

No invitations from anybody. _What the fuck_... He was bored as shit, and so close to just shelling up and calling it quits. But no, he had to wait for Kyle to... Well, Kyle wasn't even worth crap. Eric had certainly hoped that the Jew would remember him at all, but Kyle was the most arrogant person he had ever met. Not a breath from him, from whom Eric dared to expect the most out of all the people he used to know.

On the day Eric's age went over the calendar days, thirty-two, he had learned to trade his hotheadedness for authentic diplomacy. A package arrived for him in his office at the school. It was a little box with a necklace he recognized as his mother's. A letter was enclosed, but he only got as far as, "Mr. Cartman, we are sorry to inform you that Ms. Liane Cartman has been rushed to the hospital last night for overdose, but she didn't make it..."

Eric felt his breath stop for the moment that the necklace hung in his hands, until it slid from his fingers and clanged mutely to the floor. It was her one heirloom, a simple gold necklace that she wore on special occasions. "Really, mom? This is your goodbye to me?" Eric locked his door and wept for a few moments before calling the hospital to give back her necklace, "so that she could wear it in her funeral."

It was just too fast.

He had learned to drink long ago. That day, he learned to drink like his mom.

 **~o0O0o~  
** Two Years Ago

Eric sat in his rotating chair, his hands pressed together in deep thought, his eyes on the overhead lights of the office. The desk whizzed around him repeatedly, a blur, like his thoughts. When work got too busy and time felt like throwing up its hands and curling up under the table, Eric found his patience wearing thin, and his poor assistant—bless her for being obedient, if blind, and a fucking sandy vagina—brought him all the coffee he needed to skip sleep for a month and die soon after. (Who knows, that's probably what she wanted.)

"Mr. Cartman, some papers for you to sign." In came the tiny, bespectacled half-Chinese lady, bearing an armful of documents.

"Thank you, Ms. Feng," replied Eric, without slowing down his rotations. Even taunting minorities had lost its fun. (Mostly because minorities became a thing of the past, with the age of technology-aided social interaction and the spur of globalization by the United Nations.)

No matter. He was still president of something, and he was still influential to a considerable amount of people. And he was glad none of the people he made that stupid promise to hung around after graduation. The bitches became poor, single mothers, except for Wendy, who actually held a position in the Senate. And then the guys just vanished. Left one by one, trying to find a better, less boring life in other places, with other people.

Eric had recently, finally, heard about Stan's actually brilliant career and his abhorrent downfall. Stan had moved upstate to Denver for his athletic scholarship. He then toured the States for five years until an ankle injury prevented him from playing any further. At that point he resigned to being a coach for the Park County high school.

Well and good; Eric never cared much if Stan ever showed his face again.

As for Kenny, it seemed that he had signed up for a short modeling course in high school, and soon he was out of town as well, posing for each and every magazine that offered some cash. He did home appliance ads, designer fashion, environmental advocacies—money had always been his motivation, and the women (and men) that flung themselves at him was a bonus that kept him working. Eric always wondered how many STD's he'd get before dying. Of course, no one knew Kenny's infinite cycle of life and death, and how every iteration meant a clean slate for him. He drowned in fame and never returned to South Park, save for the occasional Christmas to visit his siblings.

Kenny was the one person he thought could be his best friend, but that was a time ago, before he was torn away from the group. And his seldom to non-existent visits were elusive and no one heard about it until he was gone. Eric thought it might be nice to rub it in Kenny's face that by subscribing to his magazines, he was a constant consumer of Kenny's output and provided him a sort of income. But that was wishful thinking, and Eric was too important to stoop so low as to want something he could never have.

He was alone in the world, even surrounded by people who now supported him; old faces, now literally old—the teachers, the workers, his neighbors—could now look upon him with kindness for building the town's very own college. With experience came trust that he fought hard to earn. Though he had done a good thing that wasn't for himself, it was a taxing thing to contain his pride, but it was all in the name of control.

Still rotating on his office chair, and still completely ignoring the fresh work brought to him by his assistant, he lowered his feet to the floor and decelerated to a stop. He picked up the newspaper to change the dreary train of thought he had entered.

He liked reading the obituaries. Every familiar name in this section made some form of smile upturn his regularly sullen features. He didn't expect Sheila Broflovski to be the topmost entry: "Beloved mother to her children, and to the town of South Park, where her active community leadership changed thousands of lives for the better. Wake ongoing until Sunday at the South Park synagogue."

 _Three days for a wake? Them Jews like things quick!_ Eric thought, and then he realized, _Kyle's coming home..._ Another chance to make him see. But more importantly, _Kyle's coming home!_

He entered the holy place feeling rather subdued and out-of-place. Someone near the pure-white wooden casket was reciting psalms monotonously, and the crowd of people sat around following along listlessly. No way he was performing that boring-ass ritual with them... At least he got the dress code right.

He sought Kyle, and quickly found him near the back of the crowd, head bowed, a spitting image of his father. Kyle now had a fancy red beard, as if screaming proof of his legitimacy as an adult and lawman. He had tired eyes, half-closed; a copy of the Torah lay open on his lap, currently ignored.

"What's up, Jew?" Eric slid into the seat beside Kyle's, feeling the rush of familiarity and life return to him. Kyle refused to acknowledge him for many minutes, but in this occasion, surrounded by many of his kind, Eric didn't push.

At length, Kyle looked at him, bewildered. "Is that you, Cartman?"

Eric made a small curtsy in his seat. "In the flesh. Miss me?"

"Not at all," chuckled Kyle, but it was breathy and not really full. Kyle closed the sacred book gently and replaced it in his backpack, which sat at his feet. "You're not fat anymore." He felt stupid, and it showed by the embarrassed flush on his cheeks.

"When was I ever?" Eric didn't feel as awkward anymore. Talking with Kyle did something to him, no matter what tone the redhead used: angry, confused, bright—it made Eric feel like a normal person, not some zombie of the society.

"I heard you run the local school," Kyle began.

"I built it myself," Eric proudly answered, "With the help of some people. It's a good deal; for all the work, it gives me power over children and direct connections to the government. At least the education sector."

"You're not teaching them only German and that Jews are the scum of the earth, are you?"

"No. And in turn I hope you haven't brainwashed your clients into thinking all fat people are assholes with a penchant for violence, leadership, and good charm?"

Kyle laughed, and this time, it rang with honest mirth. He forced himself silent quickly, however, when the shomer eyed him in an offended manner, and some of the congregation did the same.

Eric looked around. "What's happening?"

"Jewish wakes are different from Catholic ones," Kyle explained. "This gathering is called 'keriah', and usually only family attends. But these other people are probably from her homemakers' club." He paused when someone came up to him and wrapped two arms around his neck, murmuring something about "condolences" and "family friend".

Eric supposed the bitch was really popular. He was lucky that he saw little of her during her many campaigns, and that he didn't cross her path on his road to becoming principal. Perhaps it was because her children were no longer involved; she didn't have to get caught up in even Eric's schemes, despite knowing the extent of his powers. (Maybe she didn't know? Bitch.)

When Kyle returned, he waited for Eric to say anything, but Eric remained silent, observing the foreign setting he had entered.

"When a parent dies," Kyle said in a timid voice, "the children wear a torn piece of clothing or ribbon on the left side of the chest." He pointed at Eric's black ribbon, pinned onto his left breast pocket. "And all other family wears them on the right."

Eric crossed his arms to hide the fact. He had obviously missed _that_ bit, but he had only read enough of the Wikipedia article to gain entry into the synagogue. "I was late, dumbass."

"It means a lot that you came," Kyle hurriedly added. "You and mom didn't see eye to eye on anything, but..." He trailed off. They never had seen eye to eye, and Kyle certainly would've had news if they ever did. "Why are you here again?"

"Well I like seeing my Jew all torn up without his deawest mommy," answered Eric. Instead of a taunt in his eyes, there lay an expectant hope.

"It doesn't matter." Kyle hung his head again in defeat. His phone vibrated audibly from his backpack. He read the message and dumped it back into the bag. "Ike's not even gonna make it today, he's got a shift until this evening." He continued to mumble inaudibly.

"Speak up, Kyle," Eric commanded sharply.

Kyle exhaled loudly, trying to take the despair away with it. He peered into Eric's curious expression, then asked, "Beer? My treat."

"N-now?"

"After the service, I guess."

"Since when have you been drinking?"

"Doesn't matter. Come on, let's go, now," insisted Kyle.

"Are you sure you're the goody two-shoes Kyle whom I endlessly assaulted and slandered—"

"—and ignored for almost thirty years? I guess. Yeah." Kyle giggled, looking drunk already.

Eric couldn't believe this. _Maybe Kyle did succumb to the prophecy! All is forgiven! We could be friends again! (Fucking FINALLY...)_

Of course, Eric didn't take into account that Kyle was also just lonely, and that none of these people were barely familiar to him, or that his fast-paced, justice-centric life just only now gave him a break in over three months—many excuses in Kyle's favor and none for Eric, but both men longed for familiarity at this point, something unchanging, homely.

"You've never bent any rules," Eric noted, frowning again.

Kyle led the way out; he moved with elf-like stealth and grace as if his body were made for dance, or some other profession. "You didn't see what happened on my first day in the firm. I fought the executive guy about this clause in the Fifth Amendment. I almost got fired. I actually _almost_ missed you."

 **~o0O0o~  
** Halcyon

It had been easy, almost too easy, for them to reconnect after that. With one bottle of beer, Kyle was talking non-stop about the many cases he took and won, and Eric swelled with pride to know that the redhead's flame had grown even brighter even in his absence. After two bottles, Kyle was reduced to blubbering as he recounted that he only called Shiela once in the last year. Eric chided him relentlessly: he was fucking forty years old and didn't need her still breathing down his neck.

"I just wish she was still breathing," Kyle had said, and that shut them up for two more bottles of beer.

And then Kyle prodded about Eric's job as principal, and Eric took the chance to gloat all he wanted for half an hour as he relayed every detail of his travails to Kyle, who listened with hums of interest and half-lidded eyes. They exchanged calling cards before parting.

The month after that saw a reunion with Stan, who was surprised to hear that they, Kyle and Eric, were on speaking terms, and better yet, acting _friendly_. Stan didn't let his guard down the entire time, but three more leisurely get-togethers eased his doubts about Cartman. Eric was proud to point out that he had matured rather nicely, and despite the "minimal" flab still dangling off him (at which Kyle openly pointed and laughed, the jerk), he was a respected member of the community. (The last part was only half-true, for the students either feared or disliked him—it was respect all the same.)

He had been so carefree during this period, and his staff also noticed. There was coffee brewing in the teachers' lounge every morning, and Eric was the first to greet the groggy not-morning-people that were required to show up at six-thirty in the morning. It inspired a slow domino effect that ended up in happier teachers and students that actually learned things. Eric sometimes dropped in to teach for an hour in some randomly chosen class—though he liked the easily impressionable freshmen the most. And it wasn't a one-day course on cheating, but the merits of building a network of comrades, a "support system". They had school-wide events that fostered teamwork, because Eric still loved competition. He felt old, though, seeing all these tiny, pimple-ridden geeks, duking it out for extra credit. It was a good term.

So the old clique then spent the first night of every month in the Marsh residence. Eric met Stan's dear wife, a sweet blonde from California by the name of Lindsey, who had Wendy's every grace except intelligence. Kyle kicked Eric in the shin under the table countless times on that first awkward evening. But Stan was such an old-fashioned dad, and his son was the highlight of his middle age. It made Kyle very obviously wistful about his own bachelorhood. He had said his house was too big and made too many echoes.

This reverberated in Eric's soul for the rest of the night. Someone as successful as Kyle could be lonely too... He lay awake for a long while, trying to remember what Kyle's old laughter sounded like, and he failed miserably. Something was different, wrong. But it was fine, as long as he had Kyle's attention now.

Right? _Right_...?

"If only Kenny were here." They each pondered this aloud at some point or other, mostly as a filler between conversations, as they couldn't contact their superstar friend. But it was alright, as long as Stan was too preoccupied with his own personal shit and Kyle was lonely enough to bear Eric's company.

 **~o0O0o~  
** Present Day

Eric brought his head out of his hands and looked at Kyle, who slept undisturbed despite his silent emotional distress. Almost thirty of his younger years had been wasted without a word from Kyle, and now Eric understood why he felt like an empty shell all that time. Why he had given all his time to work and derived pleasure from control: he had no control. He was stuck in the mindset of an unfulfilled promise that they would be enemies forever. Now at the brink of losing it all, Eric understood.

There were many things that Kyle have said over their precious two years. Nice things. Banal things. They were things that didn't involve putting down each other, or their stressful court cases, or the school's accreditation issues, or their parents, or anyone. At some point, Kyle had forgone his pride and began calling him by his first name. At some point, under the influence of drink, Kyle almost apologized for beating him up that fateful day and shunning him for three decades. (He never really did, but Eric forgave him anyway.)

These were words Eric cherished far more than the diplomas he had forged, or the warm compliments his peers had (reluctantly) given out for his achievements, or the respect his students were required to give. Time finally slowed down, and he wasn't forced to think on his feet and act for others. For the first time since they were ten, he could enjoy just being, because Kyle was there to mess with, to laugh with, to drink coffee with, to spend weekends with. He didn't exactly know why, but in those times he felt alive. Wanted. And he didn't need to hear the words because it looked pretty much like it: Kyle in a sleeping bag next to his couch, their stash of drinks and a game console between them. It was the way things were supposed to be.

But that halcyon, too fleeting, was lost now. Kyle hadn't woken up in two days. It seemed like any sort of joy only existed to be taken away so cruelly.

Steeling his tumultuous emotions, Eric stood, thanked "Dr. Ike" for the pleasant visit and for the undivided care and love he provided Kyle, and left without another word. Ike was still transfixed to his spot, open-mouthed, when Stan arrived moments later.

"Dude," Stan greeted, panting. He had run from the parking lot all the way up to Intensive Care near the top floor of the hospital. "Ike?"

"Did you see Cartman?" asked Ike blankly.

"No, why? He was here? Before _me?"_

Ike closed his mouth. "It's been too long since I saw the motherfucker. He _thanked_ me for being Kyle's doctor."

Stan tried to process this, but failed. He took the seat Eric had recently vacated and turned his attention to his still super best friend. "How is he?"

Ike closed his eyes.

 **~o0O0o~  
** Two Months Later

It was quick and painless, but even as Ike wrote it in his report, he found himself tearing up. Kyle had been surrounded by friends and family, and as he breathed his last, a collective gasp erupted from the disbelieving onlookers. Stan had cried the hardest. Eric had cried the longest, refusing to leave even when security was hauling his overweight ass out of the deceased's room.

There was no saving Kyle after he had that heart attack. Ike was always telling his brother not to stress himself, take his meds, and here at the autopsy he found out the new bad habit Kyle picked up. He wasn't supposed to be drinking that much, or at all. Ike wondered who to blame, if anyone should take it. Cartman was a culprit; according to Stan, he had been spending a lot of time with Kyle, for some reason, and yet he seemed to have completely forgotten that Kyle was diabetic.

But that wasn't the only factor. Kyle's day job took a toll on his mental health too. Cases flew into his desk like hungry birds flocked to the smallest crumbs of bread. Now that one, Ike couldn't deny: Kyle loved helping people. He stayed close to home, but just outside it, in Middle Park, to expand his horizons. He entertained the homeless, the penniless, until he had little time to breathe, which was how he liked it. Kyle had always assured Ike that he was putting his Moses-given talents to good use.

But Kyle was never good with stress, and now that Ike thought about it, Cartman was a good stress-relief tool. He could deal blows and take it, and Kyle was always so energetic, especially when things didn't go his way. Maybe everyone did have a purpose. If Cartman had tried, could he have saved Kyle's life? Ike wondered, and then he let it go because it sounded too ridiculous.

They had found Kyle's will two months after he went into life support. It said he didn't want to be held prisoner in life support while his family mourned for him, if he wasn't going to make it after all. He asked that his organs be donated to Hell's Pass (Ike cringed—he had always avoided working or volunteering in or near that unprofessional hospital; curse that optimist in Kyle!). Kyle also left an allowance for Ike, the bastard. He knew that Ike was more than capable of handling himself, but he still did this. The rest of his savings were to be donated to charity, Eric's school, and the structural improvement of their hometown.

They arranged Kyle's keriah immediately, as was tradition. Like Shiela, Kyle attracted the throng of civilians he helped both legally and otherwise, but they remained outside the funeral home, a crying mass of grateful and mourning townspeople. Ike prayed in silence, along with his wife and two daughters.

As if to ruin his somber mood, the double doors creaked open dramatically, and none other than Eric Cartman waltzed into the synagogue. He occupied the seat behind Ike. Ike felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Sup, Jew."

"I'm supposed to say, 'you're not supposed to be here'." Ike sighed; or at least, Kyle would. Ike supposed Eric was destined to find the nearest Jew to him and make that person's life miserable. He turned to see an enigmatic smirk on Eric's face. He frowned when he saw the Jewish getup Cartman wore and, most notably, the torn ribbon on his right breast-pocket. Ike tensely cleared his throat. "I'm also supposed to say that those ribbons are only worn by family..."

Nodding serenely, Eric replied, "I know."

 **~o0O0o~**

On a cold December, Kenny sat in the back of a taxi. His luggage rattled in the trunk and on the passenger's seat noisily. Karen always denied his gifts, but he left them at her new house anyway. Ten steps away from the poor side of town stood the house he bought for his brother and sister. He would drop off his things and visit the cemetery today.

Being immortal, he got an uncanny feeling whenever he set foot near anyone's grave. He missed Kyle's funeral, and some of their classmates' parents, but he visited them as soon as he was back from touring the world. It was a tradition. It was just a little strange to visit one of his old best friends. Dear Kyle, big-hearted, lively Kyle...down and out from a sudden sickness. He lowered his hood to taste the crisp, empty air of the town. It smelled like always: it smelled like home, tinged with anguish.

He spent some time observing the wilting flowers half-buried under the snow next to the headstone. A corner of a muddy envelope was visible under the hard snow. Kenny's eyebrows shot up. He warmed the section of ice that trapped the letter until he could pull it free. There were no names on the back, and only a cryptic "Sorry" was scrawled in the flap.

Kenny was gripped by curiosity, but he recognized that writing. It was odd to read such a humbling word written by the person who left this message. He looked left and right; he was alone as far as he could see...

The envelope contained an old, faded photo of the four of them.

On the back, the message went:

"Always leaving me alone, fucking Jew. Now I have no one to fight (for)."

Solemnly, Kenny tucked away the envelope in his pocket. He had intruded on Cartman's privacy. But he might make up for it, he mused, if he passed it along next time he dropped by Heaven...

 **END**


End file.
